


Bound by Duty

by andrasstaie



Series: To Ajir, With Love [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arguing, Awkwardness, Gen, Healer, Injury Recovery, Mild Language, Wicked Grace, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrasstaie/pseuds/andrasstaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agarwaenor Lavellan is, often times, a hot-headed and insufferable young man. And Anika is the healer tasked to... put up with his antics. </p><p>This is a collection of short fics and drabbles on the relationship between Inquisitor Agarwaenor Lavellan (who belongs to Ajir!) and Inquisition agent Anika (my own OC). Any explicit/nsfw chapters will be marked accordingly in chapter titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Special Treatment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ajir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajir/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anika has low tolerance for stubborn, bad-mouthing Dalish elves being called the Herald of Andraste. And, she makes absolutely no bones about sharing this with him.

“For the love of the Maker, would you hold still?” 

Grumbling under her breath as Agarwaenor  _persisted_ in attempting to wriggle away from her, Anika about snapped. He was grumbling as well, something about ‘stupid shem’ slipping out. She snagged his wrist before he could escape completely. The look in her eyes dark and challenging.

“Do it again. I dare you. See if I don’t let that wound fester until it’s oozing bloodied puss and you can’t hold your bow or nock an arrow.”

Agarwaenor rolled his eyes, a heavy and annoyed sigh pushing roughly past his lips.

“You’re a  _shem_ ,” he insisted. “There’s no way you know what you’re doing. I can’t possibly trust -”

“Say it again. Call me a shem again and see if I don’t herald your ass all the way back to Andraste and the fucking Maker himself.”

“ _Elgar’nan_ ,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

She twisted his wrist, dragging him back and using her other hand to push him back onto the chair. Anika provided him a steely glare as she released his wrist. He glared right back at her, rubbing at it as if she’d left bruises.

“You’re lucky you’re even  _getting_ help.” She turned, picking up a clean bandage before she looked back at him. His blue gaze remained locked on her mercilessly. Anika huffed. “Many of the other healers are frightened of you.” She watched as he puffed his chest out ever so slightly, clearly proud of the idea. With a roll of her eyes, she began to wrap his arm with the bandage. “ _Mostly_ because they fear what it means that a Dalish elf is the Herald of Andraste.”

Agarwaenor sniffed, amused. “But not you?” He smirked up at her.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” she admitted, shrugging. “You’re hot headed, brash,  _incredibly stubborn_.” She chuckled in the face of his scowl. “Makes you more…” she trailed off, searching for the word. “Real,” she decided.

“So… I’m real to you, but not to them?” he pondered aloud.

Anika hummed. “Something like that.” She tied off the wrap and tucked the ends in. “There. Now don’t fuss with it. And I expect you to rest and allow the wound to mend.”

“I thought you were a mage?” He squinted at her, a puzzled crease in his brow.

“What does that have to do with anything?” She arched a brow at him, folding her arms across her chest.

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “I suppose it’s only elven mages that can use their magic to mend wounds.”

Anika tipped her chin up, huffing out a breath through her nostrils. “I am no less a mage because I did not close your wound with magic. Magic does not solve nor heal all injuries, Inquisitor.” She narrowed her gaze. “And  _not_ because I am only half elven.”

Agarwaenor scoffed as he stood, shaking his head as he looked her over. He waved his good arm in her general direction, indicating first her ears and then the rest of her. He made a vague, incoherent noise.

She cocked her head to the side, a look of confusion if not for the wicked smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Use your words, Agarwaenor.”

The scowl he offered sent her into a fit of laughs. He hissed again, swearing in elvhen under his breath. She gave a wicked  _tut_ under her breath, turning to gather her supplies and store them away.

“There is no way you are an elf!” he finally exclaimed, exasperated. “Just… just look at you!” He waved his good arm in her general direction again.

Anika turned, setting one hand on her hip as she stared at the short bundle of elf-rage.

“Since we lack a mirror, I expect you will need to describe the problems to me.”

He blanched, fumbling around for words to do just that. Rather than any form of sensible words, he made a few incoherent noises. Once again, he gestured to the whole of her body. A few more sounds slipped out, all words that went unrecognized.

Anika rolled her eyes. Her supplies stored away, she turned around and stepped forward. “When you figure it out, you know where to find me.” She flashed him a grin. “And in the mean time, remember what I told you. Rest. Take it easy, maybe help Lady Montilyet sort out some of that paperwork she has stacked up.”

As Anika continued on, leaving Agarwaenor standing awkwardly in place, he turned to watch her leave. He sneered, mocking her and rolling his eyes. A few odd stares from a couple patients and another healer, however, sent him scurrying back up to the main keep.


	2. Insufferable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In spite of Inquisitor Agarwaenor Lavellan’s wholly unsavory and insufferable attitude (if one is a hapless “shemlen”), Anika just can’t help but care about the elf’s well-being.

Anika hovered outside the door that lead up to the Inquisitor’s chambers. She’d drawn the short straw, again, on tending to the fiery elf. She sighed, glancing aside to see a few of the gathered guests of the Inquisition looking at her and whispering among themselves. She muttered a few curses under her breath, stepping through the door and slowly ascending the stairs of the tower. 

As she drew closer to the door of his actual room she stared at it. Or scowled, more like. Her hand hovered just a hair’s breadth from the wood. She was loathe to disturb him. And not because she was overly concerned with interrupting a nap or any sort of paperwork. Rather the wrath of the Herald was cause for concern. And how far he’d push that wrath.

She sucked in a breath and gave a heavy knock to the door. Nothing. She waited, tapping her foot a few beats before trying again. When he  _finally_ gave a muffled call to enter, she pushed the door open with a creak. Closing it behind herself, she wrapped one hand around the strap of her satchel of supplies.

“Inquisitor?” she asked, pausing at the top of the steps.

Agarwaenor stood across the room, having just stepped in from the far balcony. The initial look of curiosity and confusion she’d caught melted into one of annoyance. He still wore his armor, an obvious and bloodied tear along the rib cage of one side. Anika frowned at him.

“Why didn’t you come see a healer?”

“I don’t need some  _shemlen_ to heal me,” he grumbled.

Turning away, Agarwaenor stepped back out onto the balcony and leaned against the rail. He winced, twitching in pain with the movement. With a huff, Anika crossed the room. She dropped her satchel onto the bed and made her way to the balcony.

“You’re in pain. And Varric you took a nasty hit.” Her eyes scanned his body, looking to see if she could catch any other tell tale signs of injury.

Agarwaenor scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s barely a scratch,” he grumbled.

“You’re bleedin’ you blasted idiot!” Her fears of invoking his rage slipped away.

He trailed his gaze down along his side, then shrugged. A struggled hitch came to his movement, and he hissed in his attempt to hide it.

“Don’t make me use blood magic on you.”

He turned slowly to look at her, his brow wrinkled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

They stared silently at each other, a challenge in the glint of her pale eyes. Agarwaenor’s jaw clenched and unclenched as his mind rolled through his thoughts. Weighing the notion of whether this crazy mage was  _serious_ or not.

“ _Fine_ ,” he conceded with a snarl.

“Good, now…” She crooked her finger at him to come closer.

Agarwaenor grumbled audible as he trudged the short distance to the healer. He hissed in pain as he moved to remove his jacket, several curses slipping out in elvhen. Anika shifted, helping him strip down to his tunic and breeches. Last came his tunic, a stifled whimper of pain managing to escape. He bit down on his lip, closing his eyes in annoyance and slight embarrassment.

Anika examined his side, frowning at the deep gouge. Bruising had already blossomed up around it as well. Her eyes then danced over the rest of his body, taking in every bit about it - not just any injuries. Her eyes trailed the lines of his tattoos and then along the peppering of freckles as she circled around behind him. A few more minor cuts, bruises and scrapes lined his arms and other side. Yet her gaze continued to go back to the markings over his body, a frustrating curiosity growing in the back of her mind.

“Why do you care?” he asked after a long silence.

She froze, startled by his voice. Swallowing a lump forming in her throat, she murmured for him to move to the bed and sit. To her surprise, he obliged with no audible protest.

“You assume, ser.” She moved away from him, digging into her bag of supplies.

He watched her with interest, a slight lift in his brows. “Why else would you still be here?” he countered. “Or have come to my room?”

There lingered a surprising and genuine curiosity in his tone. Anika paused, blinking down at the bag.

“I’ve told you, no other healer will come an’ help you.”

Agarwaenor shifted on the bed, still peering at her in curiosity. “I gave you an excuse to leave.”

She turned her head to look at him, surprised at his lack of annoyance. And the lack of tension. “I…” Anika turned away to stare into her satchel again. Her nostrils flared, her fingers gripping a poultice bottle a bit too tightly.

The curiosity faded away into a smug grin, broken up only by the amused chuckles that also left him cringing in pain. Anika wrinkled her nose at him, yanking the bottle out of her bag and staring at the elf.

“Serves you right,” she hissed under her breath. “Lie on your side,” she instructed.

He groaned, but did as requested. His arms flopped down in front of himself as he cocked his head to look at her. Anika leaned over him, shifting his arm away and setting the poultice bottle down behind his back.

“Stay.”

He squinted at her. “I’m not a dog.”

She waved him off as she moved toward the steps. “If you didn’t act like a rabid one, maybe I’d be able to tell the difference.”

His mouth dropped open, then twisted up into a look of sheer annoyance. Anger simmered under the surface. And as she scurried down the stairwell to go fetch fresh water and a clean cloth, she could hear strings of curses - elvhen mixing in with the king’s tongue.

The return trip with the basin of water and cloth took a bit longer than her way down, careful not to spill too much water. Agarwaenor had rolled onto his back in her absence, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes with the other flopped across his stomach. There was a shallow, but steady rise and fall of his chest.

Anika hesitated, throwing the idea back and forth in her mind to leave the water and come back later. She crossed the room and set the bowl and cloth down on the empty desk. The healer turned to leave, prepared to return later when the Inquisitor was awake. His voice, then, gave her a start.

“You do care,” he observed, amusement in his tone.

“How-?”

“My ears aren’t all for show. If  _any_ part of you were  _elf_ , you’d know that.”

She curled her lip, turning and picking up the basin and cloth again. She walked over to him, setting the bowl down on the floor at the edge of the bed.

“Turn over.”

He huffed, but complied, rolling back onto his side to allow her access to his wound. He shifted his arm away from his eyes, watching as she set about cleaning it. Her focus was intent, unwavering as she worked. Only periodically did her gaze shift away as she dipped the cloth into the bowl.

The silence had grown awkward, but no tension lingered under the surface. Anika stood, reaching for the poultice bottle from the other side of the bed.

“I could have handed that to you,” Agarwaenor  arched his brows at her as she leaned over him.

“Maybe an  _elf_ isn’t capable?” she fired back.

With an awkward cough, she leaned back and picked up the cloth. Pouring part of the bottle over it, she then began to rub the mixture over the wound. He yelped when she hit a sensitive spot.

“Be careful.”

“I am.”

He huffed, looking away from her to glare out the windows across from where he lay on the bed. “Just, hurry up,” he muttered.

She paused. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor, did you want care or did you desire speed?”

He muttered some unintelligible phrase and Anika merely rolled her eyes. She continued until she’d drained the bottle, dropping the cloth in the water and placing the empty bottle in her satchel. She pulled out a bandage, but set it aside.

Agarwaenor sat up a bit. “What are you doing?”

Anika looked over at him, pushing down on his shoulder until he was laying on his side again. “I’m going to use a little bit of magic to help kick start the healing process.”

A soft, light green glow came off her hands as she moved them over the gash. A tingling warmth radiated off them as the skin began to pull itself together. She made a few passes before she stopped, one hand instinctively bracing against his hip as she brought the other up to her forehead.

He sat up a bit, clearing his throat. Her hand snapped off his body and she tensed, reaching for the bandage. He snagged her wrist before she could reach it, sitting up and peering up at her. A question sat on his lips, but no words came out. Anika’s eyes flicked between his face and hand as she tried to tug her hand back. Agarwaenor released her arm and looked away, mumbling yet another thing about ‘stupid shem’ under his breath.

Anika narrowed her gaze, the shock having washed away. She picked up the bandage now, reaching around his body as she began to wrap the wound up. Two more rolls of clean bandages later and she was tucking in the ends and stepping back to admire her handiwork.

“I know,” he said. “Rest for a few days so it can heal,” he mocked from the last conversation they’d had on the matter. He gave her an arrogant grin.

“Wholly insufferable.”

“And yet,” he shifted onto his back. “You care about my well being.” He draped an arm over his eyes again, that irritating smirk still clearly plastered to his face.

“Not if you keep this up,” she muttered. Collecting her supplies, she threw her satchel over her shoulder, grabbed the washcloth and water bowl and disappeared from his room.


	3. Draw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Anika attempt to, unsuccessfully, teach Agarwaenor Lavellan how to play Wicked Grace.

“All you have to do is draw a card, Freckles.”

“No, wait.” Agarwaenor squinted at the cards in his hand. He pulled one out, set the others face down and tilted the remaining card. “Were daggers good?” He picked the others up one by one again, studying them.

“You can’t tell us what you have!” Varric rubbed his brow, shaking his head with a hidden grin. “You’re as bad as Daisy,” he muttered to himself.

Anika chuckled, a surprisingly light and airy sound for the healer. “I don’t know, Varric, if he would like to share his hand… I say we let him!” She chuckled again, this time trying - not so subtly - to lean over and look at Agarwaenor’s hand with a devious smirk.

He hissed at her and twisted himself away, awkwardly. Leaving his hand wide open for a view from Varric, who grinned wickedly. He cleared his throat a moment later, causing the elf to jump and contort himself again. Agarwaenor blinked at Varric, confusion clear in his freckled features.

“Draw a card,” Varric insisted, gesturing to the deck.

“Right.”

He narrowed his gaze, picking the top card and laying it on the pile. The Angel of Death card smiled up at him and he looked at his cards, then back at the pile.

“Do I discard something now?”

“No, Freckles, you share your hand.” Varric explained, a winning smile on his lips as he laid his cards out.

“Damn cheatin’ dwarf,” Anika muttered under her breath, her own poor hand set out for display.

Agarwaenor squinted at their hands in turn, then laid down his own. “So…”

“Time to pay up, Inquisitor!” Varric declared in a disgustingly cheerful, sing-song tone to the chorus of two groaning opponents.


End file.
